


basorexia

by euriele



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Kissing, Language Kink, M/M, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1931649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euriele/pseuds/euriele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basorexia - an overwhelming desire to kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	basorexia

Agent Washington has nice lips.

The first time he takes his helmet off, you immediately notice this. It’s a thing you hate about yourself: you’ve always had an eye for detail. You notice the pale pink colour of Wash’s lips, the patches of angry red where he’s obviously bitten away the skin. The split skin reaching down towards his chin on the left side of his mouth, the scar that sits on the corner of his mouth. It’s years old, and you find yourself wanting to know the story behind it.

Washington has nice lips. When he talks to you, says something you don’t pay attention to him, you focus in on his lips. See the way they pronounce the words, the way in which Wash seems to speak out of the left side of his mouth. He purses them, bites on them a lot when he’s thinking.

You keep staring at his lips. You realize you want to kiss him.

That’s a dangerous thing.

 

*

 

It becomes a thing, trying to control himself whenever Wash’s helmet is off. He enunciates his words, seems to exaggerate certain words. Whenever he talks, you’re inexplicably drawn to look at his lips. You memorize the way he says certain words, how he exaggerates the ‘v’s of words and the ‘l’s.

You’re sure he knows you stare at his lips a lot. You’re sure he does most of it on purpose. No normal human exaggerates the words so much. No normal human moves their lips the way he does when they eat. You almost have a heart attack the day it rains, because the rain drips off of his top lip and onto his bottom. You want to reach across so desperately and kiss the raindrops away. You want to kiss him and taste the cherry flavour of his drink, the mint of the gum he chews.

The day he speaks Russian, you almost lose control.

It happens so suddenly. It’s your own fault, of course, when he heard you speaking in Sangheili. He seemed surprised that you could speak the language, and you bet that he couldn’t speak another language. He just smiles at you, and the next day he talks in Russian. The day after, he mutters away in Gaelic. He goes through countless languages - Hebrew, Japanese, Korean, Italian, German, Spanish. The day he speaks in French, the desire to kiss him increases a tenfold.

You imagine kissing him late at night, imagine yourself pressing little kisses over those lips, dragging your teeth across his bottom lip and tasting him on your tongue.

You want to kiss Agent Washington so badly.

 

*

 

He calls you by name one day.

It’s a heated argument, your worst on yet. And in the middle of it, he calls you ‘Lavernius’. You stare fixedly at his lips, the way he exaggerates the ‘l’ and drags his lips back over his teeth at the ‘-nius’.

It takes you so much to not launch at him there and then, to not pull him down to your height and crash your lips against his. You want to thread your fingers through his hair, to feel his mouth moving against your own.

You don’t kiss him, though.

You regret that decision.

 

*

 

"Sounds like you really fucked up."

"Don’t be a dick."

 

*

 

He’s gone now.

He’s stuck in the custody of the Feds, and you’re haunted by the sound of his voice, the memory of his lips moving over his teeth and the way his lips pout when he pronounces certain words. The echoes of French coming from his room, hoarse mutterings of Russian. The red patches where he’s peeled away skin from anxiety, his straight white teeth biting down on the corner of his mouth, the way his scar turned white when he smiled.

You miss all of that. You miss the way he’d disapprove of you in Hungarian, the pursing of his lips when he’d look at you in disappointment.

You miss his smile most of all, that tired smile that would reach his eyes and show off his dimples. You miss making him smile just so you could see it, because you loved that smile so much. You miss the way you wanted to kiss that smile, feel it beneath your own lips.

You miss it all.

But you had your chance.

**Author's Note:**

> prompted on tumblr by user michaeljxnes


End file.
